Lancing
by elfin
Summary: set after 'Breathless', the devil's brother is dead, and Zeke has to prevent them from killing his boss too


  
Lancing  
by elfin  
  
"Did somebody teach you how to lie?  
And take what you're feeling from your eyes?  
It's a sad disguise...."  
- from "When I Get Over You", Mike Rutherford.  
  
  
At the time, Stone didn't know exactly what they had done to their victim,  
how he had... ceased to exist. He knew now. He wished sometimes that he did  
not, wished sometimes for blissful ignorance of the torment and agony the  
other suffered before the final terrible release of death. More final for  
him than for any.  
  
Ezekiel had called him 'Myriad'. He was sure there was another name, a true  
name, but Myriad was something that had stuck in his mind after reading  
Milton's 'Paradise Lost' a few months back, and it seemed to suit his new  
friend. If Myriad preferred another name, he never mentioned it.  
  
After the angel had helped Zeke save Ros's life, had stood with him and  
talked to him while he was forced to watch the only woman he had ever loved  
fretting, shaken and scared outside the bank, they had become ... friends.  
As close a friend as he had. Myriad had asked him much and listened  
attentively. To speak to someone with no hidden agenda was refreshing, and  
although *He* hated his co-called servant spending time with his 'brother',  
Myriad neither feared him nor heeded his warnings. He told Stone not to  
either.  
  
One night Myriad had asked, in the easy, gentle way he had of asking  
questions that had no right or wrong answer, whether Ezekiel had killed  
Gilbert Jacks for Ros, or for himself. The question had actually made Zeke  
smile, for it was one he had been asking himself for sixteen years. He  
guessed that at the time he had justified murdering the man because of what  
he had done to his wife, because he had loved her with everything that he  
was. He had told himself that all women would be safer if Jacks were not to  
live. That was what he had told himself that fateful night, and for a very  
long time afterward. And yet, he didn't believe now that it was the truth.  
Stone had killed Jacks for revenge, for himself. The bastard had wrecked  
his marriage, his life, his love, had shattered everything he had, taken  
from him all he ever wanted. Gilbert Jacks deserved to die. Stone had  
wanted him to die. That was why he had killed him. Selfish to the end, he  
had told Myriad ruefully. And then he had got himself killed. Selfish, to  
leave Ros without anything, to take from her all that remained after Jacks'  
brutal attack. Myriad had scolded him for thinking like that, told him off  
for thinking the worst of himself. The angel saw someone in Zeke that Zeke  
didn't believe anyone had ever seen in him before. Or would again.  
  
Ezekiel had not experienced a sheltered life. When he had lived, he had  
believed that he'd seen everything. He knew the absurd cruelty that humans  
visit on other living creatures, had seen the results of brutality such as  
most people never life to witness. And yet when he died and went to hell,  
he discovered more. Hell was not, Stone discovered, as the living imagine  
it; a place of brimstone and fire, of burning heat and sleeping on coals.  
Hell was not a state of being, so much as a state of grace. Or lack of it.  
When the devil visits in hell, it was not a case of him striding into your  
room, it was knowledge, terrible knowledge shown to you so that you cannot  
turn away nor cover your eyes and ears.  
  
He saw much in hell. Yet when he returned to earth he realized that the  
living were capable of far more cruelty than the dead. The thought of  
eternity in Satan's embrace began to scare him less than it would scare  
those who did not know yet lived in terror every day of their lives. The  
best way he could describe his hell to Myriad was to like it to a fresh  
memory. To standing on a street corner in New York and having the devil  
inform him that the man he allowed go free because his girlfriend was a  
snitch, was the very one who would live to rape his wife and finally seal  
his fate. The rage that had filled him then, at Lucifer's words, at the  
smug sureness, was his hell - the certainty that the devil was telling the  
truth, the anger that made him draw his gun and shoot out the devil's eyes.  
  
Stone had never shown nor felt any remorse at killing Gilbert Jacks. The  
second time, after the bastard had escaped from hell and he had sent him  
back to that eternal jail cell, he had actually enjoyed it, felt pleasure  
in his enemy's fall. It was what the devil had wanted, of course, but he  
didn't usually give in to his boss's whims. He did then, and had done  
since. Stone had felt himself becoming more sinful with every moment spent  
in the devil's service. Instead of cleansing himself of the wrong-doings  
that had sent him to hell in the first place, he felt he was collecting  
sins and starting to feel good about it. Until Myriad. Until the angel had  
shown him that his work for the devil was doing good up on earth. He was  
saving people, stopping more lives from being wrecked as his own had been.  
Preventing tragedies that never should have been a threat.  
  
Zeke had always wondered what made angels angelic. Myriad showed him that  
it wasn't a matter of harps, wings and good deeds. It was simply the truth.  
He was a balm for Ezekiel, such peace in a world of insanity and an  
afterlife spent hunting down the dregs society believed long gone. He was a  
friend, simple and easy. And then he was wiped out, spirit scattered far  
away over the stars of the night sky. And Stone swore that he would find  
those responsible and make them pay, not for revenge. For Myriad.  
  
And maybe for his brother.  
  
*  
  
The call came from Detective Carl Bruen, a friend Stone had managed to make  
in the NYPD just after Ash's disappearance. He thought Carl sounded a  
little odd, but he caught the gist of what the detective was saying, and at  
least managed to get an address. He turned from the breakfast bar and  
regarded the devil, sitting in his chair watching his television. His  
evilness had been unusually quiet for the last few hours and Stone had been  
starting to become concerned.  
  
Zeke remembered, as he often did, the words of Lucifer's note, scrawled  
temporarily on his wall the night they'd... made out. 'How can nothing  
change when everything's changed?'. Nothing had changed, not outwardly. He  
had taken out another seven demons in the month since, helped by the fact  
that four of them had formed some weird sort of vigilante group and had  
been deeply involved in a heated debate when Zeke shot all four during a  
group meeting. The devil had been pleased. He'd even bought dinner. Still,  
that night had not been mentioned.  
  
And then there had been the awkward time when Myriad had shown up. Just as  
Lucifer was trying to talk Zeke into believing that he'd deserved to go to  
hell, the devil's angel of a brother had turned up to counteract the  
arguments. Luckily. Without him, Zeke would probably have been back in Hell  
right now, and Lucifer would have another pet to frustrate and annoy. But  
Myriad had shown up, and was still showing up for drinks, vanilla sundaes  
and long chats about everything from the meaning of life to the more  
complex body language used by players during football games.  
  
Off-hand comments had shown Zeke that the devil was jealous. But the ruler  
of Hell wasn't about to admit that in a hurry, and so the friendship had  
grown unabated.  
  
Ezekiel was still at a loss to explain why something had happened between  
himself and his employer in the first place. Except for the occasional  
drunken fuck with a stranger picked up in a bar, Zeke had never had much  
attraction to men. He appreciated the fairer sex far too much. Yet... there  
was something about the human form the devil had chosen. That one night he  
had found himself wanting to touch the jet black, silky hair. He remembered  
seeing the golden flecks in the dark eyes, if he looked closely enough.  
  
The devil looked up, regarding him with suspicion. "What?"  
"Oh, nothing. Just... a possible lead on one of your escaped convicts."  
"Excellent." Zeke wondered if the smile that split his boss's face was  
genuine. "Can I come?"  
  
*  
  
The address was downtown, in one of the rougher areas of New York. A run  
down block in the projects. A single police car had made it to the scene  
before them, although Zeke knew Bruen was around too. It was the follow-me  
line of yellow police tape that led them to the basement of the building.  
From there, the stink was easy enough to follow. Pushing open the outer  
door, what was beyond reminded Ezekiel of the pervert's place in "Silence  
of the Lambs" - a film he'd rented not to long ago and watched with Max and  
three buckets of chicken. The air felt slick, hot. The walls had a terrible  
sheen to them which made his skin crawl just looking at it.  
  
As he entered the basement rooms, Stone found himself wondering what other  
people saw when they saw the devil. They must see something, he'd guessed,  
because no one had ever tried to walk through him, or questioned him when  
he'd ordered ice-cream. He was never ignored, just always... welcomed.  
Stone frowned to himself; that was the wrong word. Or maybe not. This was a  
crime scene and no one was asking him to leave. Whatever that was, it was  
what happened everywhere.  
  
Stone continued through the dingy basement until he stepped into the room  
in which Bruen stood. The detective looked up with a grimace.  
"This is a bad one, Stone."  
He didn't need to point that out. Just beyond the door, the room opened out  
to something that would not have been out of place in a brewery. A huge vat  
stood to the left, wide with low sides. Three circular rails were attached  
to the ceiling, the outer one the radius of the vat itself. From this rail  
hung meathooks. Five large hooks strong enough to hold a man. And at least  
two of them had done. For the hands still remained, pierced by the sharp  
hooks through the palms, torn off at the wrists, the fingers locked in  
macabre grips around the tops.  
  
Zeke swallowed the bile in his throat and stepped further into the room,  
joining Bruen to get the rundown on whatever they knew. They knew nothing.  
A woman upstairs had reported terrible screams, and for someone living out  
here to report something like that, it had to have been bad. For someone  
out here to call the police was almost unheard of. Bruen had been the first  
on the scene and had called Stone. Two officers had arrived next, they were  
outside throwing up. They had looked into the vat. As if reacting to some  
pre-determined cue, Stone did the exact same thing. He stepped up and  
peered over the low edges into the darkness. It took a moment for his eyes  
to adjust. And then he was looking away, again fighting the urge to vomit.  
The vat contained more remains. But it was liquid. The skin, muscle, blood,  
insides of a body but no bones. Nothing to be identified. Nothing that  
wouldn't have to be siphoned out. Stone felt nothing in that second but a  
soul deep urge to run, to get out of the basement and into the sunlight  
where nothing like this could ever happen. Or where he could make himself  
believe that.  
  
In an effort to look anywhere but at the vat, he turned to the tiny  
blacked-out window and the filthy narrow ledge. A small, leather bound book  
looked out of place there and he picked it up. In the same moment a  
strangled noise turned his attention back in the direction of the horror.  
Zeke frowned. The devil was standing side-on to the vat, one hand locked  
over the edge, fingers digging into the rusted metal. The other was fisted  
at his side, he was looking forward with unfocused eyes. And the expression  
on his face was one of pain. Pain and loss.  
  
Glancing at Bruen and wondering at the blank look on his face, Stone  
stepped up to his boss. Satan surely had seen worse - had inflicted worse -  
than this.  
"Hey...." Ezekiel touched Lucifer's shoulder and the devil flinched,  
looking up and taking a moment to focus. His sharp features were set in  
terrible grief, something Zeke had never expected to see. As he watched,  
the dark eyes changed, glazing over before tears began to form. Zeke's own  
eyes widened. This was unexpected. This was creepy. Once again he tried to  
touch the other's shoulder, and this time the contact wasn't shrugged off.  
"What?"  
When the devil still remained silent, eyes blinking away tears as more  
formed, Ezekiel decided it was time to get them both out of here. Slipping  
the small book into a deep pocket, he forcefully turned Lucifer toward the  
door and directed him out, walking him through the corridor and up the  
stairs until they were outside. He stopped them by a low wall and released  
his hold. Lucifer remained standing, staring off passed the dilapidated  
kids' play-area into nowhere. Zeke stood a little to his side, watching and  
becoming more concerned as each long minute passed.  
  
And then, in a tiny voice, he heard the devil speak the impossible. "It was  
Quisander." Eyes flicked up to meet Zeke's. "Myriad."  
The breath caught in Ezekiel's throat before he was shaking his head.  
"It... can't have been. That's not possible! Myriad's an angel. Whoever  
that was... he or she... there were human remains."  
Lucifer did not seem to hear him. "It was my brother. I could feel... his  
spirit. It was everywhere, trapped in that room, shattered." Tears cascaded  
over the human face of the devil, astounding Zeke with their emotion.  
"Someone... bound him to the flesh. And then... slayed him." More tears,  
and now sobs were beginning, deep moans of pain.  
  
Without thinking, unable to form a coherent thought, Zeke stepped forward,  
putting one hand behind Lucifer's shoulder, the other going to his arm to  
pull him gently but firmly into an enfolding embrace. He held onto the body  
in his arms, feeling the deep tremors running through it, sensing the  
devil's desperate, slipping hold on his own control. Resting his chin in  
the black hair, he murmured, "Let go."  
  
The devil cried out in sudden, excruciating pain and drew back, away from  
Zeke, staring at him with wild eyes. "You've no idea!" He cried, voice  
pitched hysterically high. "I can't let go. Everyone here would pay." He  
took three steps back, and disappeared in a heated swirl of red-tinged  
light. Zeke wiped his own eyes. Despite the enormity of it, it had to be  
true. Myriad... Quisander... had died in that hell on earth. The gentle,  
unassuming angel had only taken human form to help him - worthless Ezekiel  
Stone. And now he was gone because of it. He had so many questions that  
only the devil could answer. They would wait.  
  
Pulling the small book from his pocket, he turned it in his hands to read  
the gold scribe on the binding. The words looked Latin. Zeke headed back  
into the city, heading for the university.  
  
*  
  
The professor was looking at him with a very definite mix of suspicion and  
envy. "This, my young friend, is the Book of Black. And a very rare copy of  
it." The older man pulled his glasses half way down his nose and regarded  
Zeke over them. "May I ask where you found it?"  
"A crime scene."  
Professor Cranberry's bright blue eyes widened. "Really? A theft?"  
"Murder." Zeke watched the other's expression change to something akin to  
fear. "What's the book about?"  
"It... it's not really about anything." The professor sat down hard behind  
his desk, his mind - imagination perhaps - working overtime. "It is said  
that there are passages in here, spells to summon the devil, to ensnare  
demons in human forms, to subject victims to terrible horrors." Cranberry  
had dropped the book to his desk but his hands rested on either side of the  
black leather, as if he feared opening it. Zeke had no such reservations.  
He reached down and flicked open the cover. Cranberry read the words there  
as if entranced.  
"'Kneel and learn all you who embrace good and reject the demons of Hell.  
Herein are the incantations of the Kereb. With these weapons of words you  
may rid this world of the devil and his demons.'" He looked up at Zeke  
worriedly. "It is not right to read from the Book of Black."  
"Yeah, yeah. Is there anything in there that might... cause... death by  
melting?"  
The professor frowned. "This is only... superstition." But he did not look  
or sound convinced at his own conviction. He turned the first few pages and  
stopped at a short passage under which an illustration caught Zeke's eye. A  
pentagon, roughly drawn, and in the centre a horned creature, maybe meant  
to be the devil.  
Ezekiel placed his finger on the page. "What about that one?"  
  
Had Cranberry chosen only to skip-read, or had his language skills not been  
so honed, it might not have worked. But Professor Cranberry was leader in  
his field, translated for historians and archaeologists.  
"'Into this your own given sign we call you, devil of all, Satan cast down  
from the godly skies to the burning pits of netherworlds. Cast off this  
summoning you may not for it is right. We your servants are also your  
master. We who you desire call you. Summoned you are therefore it is your  
duty to...'"  
It was the devastating cry of surprise, pain and fury that rocked Ezekiel.  
At the very worst he had imagined that the devil would be standing there  
before them, tapping his foot on the floor and demanding an explanation. It  
was not even close. The floor before the desk was on fire. In the midst of  
the flames knelt something... black and charred. Yet still moving. Trying  
to stand.... Zeke realized belatedly that the professor was still reading.  
He lashed out, knocking the book from his hands, ending the flow of words,  
stopping the incantation. The devil let loose a cry of... despair?  
  
And then it was gone, as quickly as Zeke had seen it. He approached the  
front of the desk shakily, but there was no sign that anything had  
happened, not a mark on the expensive carpet. Cranberry was looking at him  
as if he'd grown horns and a forked tail. "Why did you do that?"  
Zeke stared at him, open-mouthed. "You didn't... see that?!"  
"See what?"  
  
Ezekiel shook his head and moved around the desk to retrieve the book from  
the floor. For a moment he thought the professor would ask for it back, but  
he didn't.  
"Thanks for your help." And Zeke was gone.  
  
*  
  
Pushing open the door of his apartment, he looked inside cautiously.  
"Hey.... Are you here?" Nothing answer him but the eerie silence within. He  
swore softly. He didn't really believe they had done anything from which  
Satan himself couldn't heal, but he was aware of having hurt the devil, and  
somehow that was wrong. Especially at a time like this.  
  
Zeke banged the door closed just for the noise and chuckled at himself. 'At  
a time like this'?! It was Satan for God's sake! He'd shot his eyes out not  
so ago, sending him straight back to hell. No remorse there. That had been  
personal, done in the heat of the moment in revenge for his boss being a  
smug righteous bastard. This was different.  
  
How long had that fire been eating away at him? How long had it taken for  
the blackening, the charring to strip away his flesh?  
  
Suddenly he was on the verge of panic. He caught himself, taking a deep  
breath simply to calm. It was the devil, after all. Bringer of pain,  
tormentor of souls. Anyway, since when did he care so damn much? //since  
that night, as well you know, Zeke// He smiled ruefully to himself. Myr...  
Quisander's murder had really shaken him up, worse than he'd realized  
obviously.  
  
Pulling the leather-bound book from his pocket he dropped it onto the  
table. As he did, the cover fell open. He stared at the words written  
there, seeing the translation of the ancient dialect, almost hearing it in  
his mind. Quickly he reached down and closed the cover. //you have to  
relax// he told himself. This whole situation was affecting him far too  
much for his own good. It wasn't like he lead a easy life, wasn't like he  
didn't deal with evil everyday, sometimes even ate with it. It was just  
something.... What kind of person would murder an angel?  
  
He needed normality for an hour or two before he went back to the crime  
scene. The necessity of doing so made him shudder. But he knew he had to  
go.  
  
Locking his door behind him, he went for a walk in the park.  
  
*  
  
It was early evening when Ezekiel made it back to the tower block. He knew  
for certain that he didn't want to be there when it got dark. This time he  
took longer to investigate the best of the basement area before returning  
to the vat room. But there was nothing. The place seemed like it hadn't  
been lived in for years. The damp was ingrained into the walls, causing the  
sheen he had seen earlier in the day, on his last visit here. There was  
nothing supernatural about it, just stale water. Had he then, imagined more  
of what he believed he had seen today, was his mind simply playing tricks?  
  
It the vat room itself, the hands, and most of the remains had already been  
removed by the police forensics team. Zeke wondered what they'd find in the  
remains of a flesh-bound angel. They'd never identify him, that was for  
sure. Without a family or loved ones to placate, the NYPD would soon move  
on to other cases. He was the only one who would ever care enough to find  
out who killed Quisander, and why. Maybe even how.  
  
For a long time he stood still within the confines of the blood-splattered  
walls and waited, hoping some spark of inspiration would come to him. He  
listened, waiting for the dead cries of his friend to ring in his ears. Did  
angels have souls? Surely Quisander would return to heaven, wouldn't he?  
What was it Lucifer had said? Something about his spirit being shattered?  
  
Zeke forced himself to lean into the vat and touch his finger to the  
macabre goo that remained in the bottom. Bringing his hand up, he saw the  
blood stain on the tip of that finger and watched it. Before his eyes, it  
welled up into a single coherent drop, crystallising while he watched  
before suddenly shattering into hundreds of tiny shards and dropping to the  
floor. He swallowed and made to back out of the room before stopping  
himself with a silent chastisement. "How old are you?" he muttered to  
himself. Even as a kid he hadn't spooked easily, hadn't been allowed to  
with his father around. How would that have seemed?  
  
Ezekiel derailed that train of thought swiftly. Not now. There was no time  
for old wounds. Too many new ones to deal with. Yet nothing was coming of  
hanging around here. There were no clues as to who or how or why. The only  
thing he had was the book. The professor had said it was very rare, so  
where would someone get a copy of something like that? Turning his back on  
the vat room, he stepped once more into the simple maze of corridors that  
lead away from the horrors behind him.  
  
He stood there in silence for a long minute before something on the floor  
caught his eye. He leaned down to grasp the corner of white showing up in  
the grime that seemed to cover everything. He recognised the feel of the  
thick paper he held. A Polaroid photograph. Smiling to himself, hoping this  
was the breakthrough he needed, he spat on the dirty-covered front and  
wiped it on his coat sleeve.  
  
Long seconds later he breathed again, having forgotten to. The photo was of  
the devil - his devil - the same wide-brimmed hat and black hair, black  
shirt and mischievous grin. It had been taken outside Zeke's own apartment  
building. Finally the mental block cleared from his mind and he saw  
everything; the plan, the motives. And the mistake. They had wanted the  
devil. They had killed an angel. Did they realise? Ezekiel guessed they  
were demons such as himself; some of the escapees looking to rid themselves  
once and for all from the threat of their jailer.  
  
What would happen if there were no devil, no Satan to reign in the evil of  
Hell? Would the prisoners truly go free? Would he? Could he step back and  
wait? Could he leave the devil to the same fate as his brother? If they had  
realised that they had murdered the wrong one, would they now go after the  
right one? A flash of the charred image in the professor's study flooded  
his mind. They could call the devil to them... if they still had the book.  
Which they didn't.  
  
Fleeing the horrors of the basement, he headed out and home once more.  
  
*  
  
Max looked up from the paper as he wondered in to his apartment block.  
"Hey."  
"Hey yourself." Zeke leaned on the desk in front of her. "Would you do me a  
favour?"  
She gave him one of her best smiles. "For you, Stone. Anything."  
"If anyone looks like they're waiting around here for someone, would you  
call me. And if my friend - the strange guy with the black hair -" she  
nodded, "- comes in, send him straight up and tell him it's urgent." He  
knew Lucifer sometimes liked to enter via the front door, just to fuel  
rumours.  
She nodded. "No problems."  
"Thank you."  
"You're welcome."  
  
Again his apartment was eerily quiet. And empty. He kept expecting - or  
rather hoping - that an enraged devil would turn up and give him hell  
(metaphorically speaking) for what had occurred at the university. Sighing  
to himself he grabbed a beer from the fridge and crossed to the table where  
he knew he'd left it. It wasn't there.  
  
*  
  
There was always heat. It was comforting in a way, when he needed that.  
Some claimed they could hear the screams of tormented souls, crying out for  
mercy in their thousands. Because that was what they expected to hear. He  
heard nothing just now. Down here, in his own realm, he just was.  
Throughout the ages of man there had been drawings, representations, false  
idols. None had been accurate. Where the horns, and the forked tail had  
come from he would never know. He was an angel, albeit a fallen one. He had  
the wings, the light. But only when he wanted them, only when he needed a  
form.  
  
He had chosen the human form carefully for his time with Ezekiel Stone, and  
was uncertain why his brother had been possessed to mimic it. The knowledge  
that he would never know stung him more deeply than he would ever have  
imagined it could have done.  
  
He dropped his head back into the molten bed on which he lay. Tendrils that  
might have been fingers snaked into the hot mattress beneath him and  
stretched apart. The summoning had hurt. The incantation read in English  
had warped the effect somewhat. He remembered it being used in ancient  
times, read in Latin and he had appeared strong and powerful, enveloped in  
flames. He had always faced them in a rage, even if he had been stuck for  
something to engage his time. He hadn't heard the words used in a  
millennia. He had been more than a little surprised to find himself being  
forcefully pulled from his grief into the arms of hellfire itself, to be  
twisted and charred in the soaring heat and finally to appear before  
Ezekiel Stone and mad professor friend. That trick had earned Cranberry in  
place in hell if nothing else had.  
  
He was rather pleased that Ezekiel had stopped the chant. His appearance  
must have been startling. Or frightening. He smiled to himself. That would  
pay the snivelling demon back for shooting him in the eyeballs some weeks  
ago.  
  
He allowed his thoughts to linger on his servant. Despite himself -  
literally - he knew he felt deeply for the human, knew he was attached to  
Ezekiel now. He had managed to admit it in the heat of the passion, and the  
words he had left his lover with had been the naked truth. And Ezekiel  
cared for him! That was perhaps the most amazing thing. This morning, at  
Quisander's murder scene, the embrace, the murmurs of comfort, the care  
Ezekiel had shown him from the outset. Throughout their relationship,  
despite everything he tried to wind Ezekiel up, it was only the final blow  
concerning Gilbert Jacks that had turned his detective against him. And  
even after that, after his anger, his claiming Zeke was his and his alone,  
the man had still returned to joking with him over breakfast.  
  
He found himself constantly amazed by the human spirit. Especially by  
Ezekiel's. Maybe he should go up and just let Zeke know he was okay.  
  
*  
  
Instead of simply appearing in the apartment as was his wont when he was in  
a hurry, tonight the devil decided to go in through the building. Zeke's  
cute little landlady always regarded him with such a feral expression, and  
he wondered if he could push her suspicions further with a few selected  
words. He stepped into the dingy hallway. Max was at her usual spot,  
reading some trash novel. Lucifer straightened his deep blue shirt and  
stepped up to her. And stopped at the sound of voices.  
  
Max turned as Zeke's odd friend pushed the door open and came inside.  
"Hey," she called to him. He did look up. He even smiled at her - a smile  
that sent shivers down her spine. But whatever she might have said to him  
was lost as two other men followed him inside. They were speaking in a  
language she did not recognise, chanting almost, and if it annoyed her, it  
was having a more intense impact on Zeke's friend.  
  
He froze in place. The words were stinging him, as if they were physical  
darts cast in his direction. He flinched and tried to move, but the two  
simply moved closer and continued the barrage of words. At her desk, Max  
cautiously picked up the phone and called Zeke's apartment.  
  
Ezekiel half ran half flew down the stairs. He was too late. He saw his  
erstwhile boss kneeling on the floor of the hallway, face tilted upwards,  
eyes screwed shut in agony. His arms were stretched out, hands up, as  
trying to shield himself from the power of the incantation that was calling  
his ancient soul, binding him to the human flesh. Zeke screamed, trying for  
'no' but probably not getting too close for as he opened his mouth the  
vision of terror simply vanished. The men, the devil, the chanting. All  
gone. He looked to Max, whose life-tinted eyes had gone wide, her face  
white. He had been about to ask her if he'd really seen that. But her  
expression told him it had been real, and he knew deep within him that he'd  
witnessed the summoning and the binding as it was supposed to have been  
done.  
  
So where were they now?  
  
Taking a wild guess, he set out for that building and that basement at a  
running pace.  
  
*  
  
He struggled, gave them as much to fight off as he could. But in the end  
there were five of them and one of him, and he felt so weak....  
  
He screamed too. The pain of the thick metal forced through sensitive flesh  
almost blinded him, and when the second hand was subjected to the same  
abuse, the white-hot agony simply merged into one flame that began at the  
base of his neck and seemed to spread like wildfire along his nerves.  
  
Only when the torturing hands left him, did he dare to open his eyes. He  
recognised the vat room where his brother had met his own final death. He  
could still feel the tormented, scattered spirit fighting against the  
physical walls that held him here. To free him, the place would have to be  
destroyed. Would he also become trapped here? Him? Satan? The ruler of the  
netherworlds? He raged against the bonds that held him; the spiritual  
binding to this putrid flesh, and physical grip of the cold metal hooks  
through his hands.  
  
It hurt. More than he could have imagined. Physical pain was something he  
doled out, something he enjoyed when he was in his own realm, his own form  
could stand so much more. The pitiful limits of the flesh were nothing new  
to him. Except that he had never experienced them from within before. His  
entire weight was held up through the torn muscle and skin of his palm. The  
hooks had sliced up as he had been released to drop, and were now scraping  
against the small bones in his hands. He could feel the blood running in  
steady streams over his wrists, down his arms under his shirt. If he turned  
his head he knew he would see the blood pooling in the material at his  
elbow and slowly starting to leak through the delicate fabric to join his  
brother's remains in the vat just below.  
  
Opening his eyes had also brought another fact into clear view. He  
recognised his attackers. Five demons that Ash had assisted in escaping  
from his hellish embrace. All were ancient souls, cast into Hell for  
playing with black magic. He believed, if his mind was still functioning  
correctly, that one of them was the author of the damned book - The Book of  
Black. The one Ezekiel had had in that room to which he'd been summoned.  
The one now held in the loving grasp of one of his tormentors. Should that  
be executioners?  
  
He almost laughed at the stray thought that if he were really human, if he  
had truly belonged in the fleshy prison to which he had been condemned, he  
would have been going straight to Hell. The one place, ironically, that he  
wished he were at this very moment. He tried to laugh. But it came out as a  
horrible mix, half way between a sob and a scream. Two of the demons  
standing in a semi-circle around the vat looked up at him and smiled.  
  
And then the words began. A different chant, different sounds that would  
not bind, but would undo. He could feel their terrible effect almost  
immediately. The damnable skin covering this body began to heat up, started  
to feel that it was melting beneath his clothes. Deeper inside, he had the  
impression of important body parts failing in their duties. He had never  
had need of them before; this physical state had been nothing more than an  
illusion, a trick of the light so as not to scare his Ezekiel....  
Ezekiel.... Had he known? He had worked out what the book was for and  
returned it to these demons so that they might end his torture and finally  
free him?  
  
Somehow that thought cut deeper than the words being flung at him.  
  
He closed his eyes, squeezing burning tears of pain through his lids to  
send them cascading over his cheeks. As they ran, he swore he could feel  
them tearing the skin in their path.  
  
The agony clouded his mind, centring his focus on nothing but the nerves  
aflame within him. He tried to struggle against everything that was being  
done to him, but the movements simply pulled the hooks further through his  
hands, snapping at least one bone in each. If he pulled too hard they would  
slice up and through, and he would fall into his bother's decaying flesh  
that awaited him at the base of the vat.  
  
Tipping his head back, he screamed.  
  
Zeke heard that. He jumped the final steps and flung himself at the  
basement door, running, gun in hand, straight into the vat room that was  
scene to the horrors he was hearing. That scream had at least told him he  
was in the right place. But was he in time? As he barrelled into the vat  
room, his subconscious picked up the sound of police sirens getting closer.  
For some reason he felt relieved. A feeling that deserted him when he saw  
the awful scene in front of him.  
  
Before any demon could react he had fired two bullets.  
  
One took out the left eye of the demon holding the book. He dropped the  
leather bound copy and cried out as his soul dragged itself back to Hell.  
  
The second ripped through the face of the demon next to the fallen one. It  
was enough.  
  
The chanting had stopped and the three remaining were almost on top of him  
when he fired again, straight into the right eye of the one closest to him.  
The bullet excited by some miracle and plunged with equal vigour into the  
fourth demon.  
  
One left. Zeke took a moment to glance at the now struggling form of the  
devil and wanted to use his fingers to dig out the eyes of this last  
unfortunate one. Instead, he aimed carefully and found no resistance. A  
moment before he pulled the trigger, he heard the words, 'you could have  
been free' echo around him. And he fired. And the words - and their speaker  
- were gone.  
  
Dropping his gun, Zeke dragged a table from the back of the room to the  
edge of the vat and leapt up onto it. Hushing his frantic boss, he hooked  
one arm around the sweat-soaked waist body and pulled it forward with care  
until the devil's feet touched the table on which he was standing.  
Not thinking of anything passed this sudden offered escape, Lucifer pulled  
hard against the hooks stilled searing his flesh. Zeke stilled him. "Easy.  
Let me." Reaching up, he apologised under his breath before sliding first  
one then the other hook from the bloodied palms. Bitten back yells of pain,  
and then arms dropped before coming up around him to cling desperately.  
Steadying them both, Zeke took a moment to simply hold on. Harsh sobs of  
pain and terror were torn from the unwilling soul in his arms. He held  
tighter, murmuring softly, reassuring where he wasn't sure what reassurance  
would be. Lucifer felt so small at that moment, so powerless. He  
unreasonably remembered the last time they'd embraced.  
  
Easing them both down, he finally slipped off the table and helped the  
devil down too. With one arm around the shaking shoulders, and the other  
hand holding him close to his side, Zeke led his temporary ward out of the  
room and up into the night as the police arrived.  
  
*  
  
Max was waiting for them. Zeke saw her and asked her to fetch a first aid  
kit of some kind, hoping this nightmare of an apartment building actually  
had such a thing. Luckily, by the time Zeke had the devil sitting on the  
edge of the couch, she had found one. Without asking anything, she knelt in  
front of 'Zeke's friend' and began to dress and bandage the deep wounds.  
Zeke watched her, sitting one the arm of the couch in silence, hands folded  
in his lap.  
  
Finally she finished and sat back on her heels, not taking her eyes from  
the man in front of her who was turning his bandaged hands over and back,  
staring at them, obviously in shock. "He really needs a hospital, Stone.  
He's lost a lot of blood and those wounds won't heal on their own."  
Ezekiel shook his head. "He'll be all right, trust me." He did look at her  
then. "Please?"  
She hesitated, but nodded. "Call if you need me?"  
"Thanks."  
  
Once she'd gone, Zeke slipped off the arm to sit in the corner of the  
couch. Lucifer was still staring at the bandages. Reaching forward, Zeke  
touched his shoulder, ignored the flinch, and carded his fingers through  
the damp black hair. There was no sign of any more wounds. If he was right  
in his thinking then the spell had been stopped. With any luck, the binding  
had a time limit, as the summoning did.  
  
"I think this'll wear off soon." Lucifer nodded vaguely. "These are just  
physical wounds...." Zeke wished he sounded more sure of himself. But the  
devil looked up at him then, and nodded, letting out a deep sigh.  
"Yes. Soon... my... spirit will be released from this hell and I return to  
mine." He smiled a little uncertainly. "It won't be pleasant. To be trapped  
in this form for too long is uncommon."  
Ezekiel moved closer, one arm around the devil's shoulders. "You'll be all  
right." Another nod. Zeke tugged persuasively, and Lucifer allowed himself  
to fall against the strength beside him. Ezekiel simply held him.  
  
"Would Quisander have gone to heaven?" The question, asked some time later,  
stirred the devil from an uneasy slumber. He had moved his legs up onto the  
couch, and was leaning back against Zeke, the man's arms encircling him  
almost possessively. He moved his head from the pillow of the crook of  
Ezekiel's shoulder, but dropped it back when the spike of pain shot down  
his spine.  
With much regret, he told Ezekiel the only truth. "Quisander... all of us  
angels are souls. If we are destroyed, there is nothing more. His spirit is  
trapped inside the walls that witnessed his death. When I am able, I shall  
release him."  
Zeke wanted to ask what that meant, but he thought he already knew. And he  
had not the desire to stop it. Quisander - Myriad - had been his friend.  
And Lucifer.... "They stole the book back, I didn't give it to them."  
The devil actually smiled. "I... did wonder."  
"I know. That's why I told you. You're a pain in the ass sometimes... but I  
wouldn't want... that."  
Zeke expected some witty comeback. Instead, he just heard, "thank you." He  
hugged the weary form in his arms closer to him, offering comfort for them  
both.  
  
The devil tensed in his arms when the binding started to wear off. Ezekiel  
held him, and softly whispered, "Close your eyes." The devil, for once, did  
as he was instructed. First spirit, released from the terrible prison,  
escaped. Eyes covered so as to stop the crashing, hurried exit from the  
physical form, it left via the holes in the hands, slowly and with aching  
relief. As the last fled back to Hell, the body in Zeke's arms simply  
vanished.  
  
He dropped his head back to the cushions and closed his eyes. "Get well  
soon." He murmured.  
  
//soon...// came the unexpected reply.  
  
fade out  
  



End file.
